A Voice in the Night
by midgardianhero
Summary: Sherlock had always enjoyed a good crime scene. That one could only be described as a nightmare. Fog was obscuring everything and it had nothing to do with the local weather. The East Wind takes us all in the end, but Sherlock had not seen this coming. One Shot.


**I started writing this before season 4 came out, so it's canon only up to that point. The serial killer mentioned in this story has nothing to do with Culverton Smith. Not betaread, not brit-picked, sorry.**

* * *

Sherlock was on a case. Maybe two, if the additional sugar found in the first victim's coffee meant anything. His steps were fast but unhurried as he walked the London streets purposefully. In a quiet part of the city, he found the man he was looking for. The old beggar was apparently taking a sunbath.

"I need some information," Sherlock said as a greeting.

"What, son?"

Sherlock almost jumped at this. The man had said it so fast and for a moment... Watson. Hearing that name now felt very wrong. So wrong that the mention of Redbeard might have stung less. Redbeard was long ago, though. Not John. He composed himself. He needed to get on with this and the last thing he wanted was to make a show of his weakness in front of one of his informers.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," he said, narrowing his eyes and turning up his coat collar for maximum effect. "Not 'son'."

The conversation was soon over. It had been quite unpleasant, but useful nevertheless. He had already visited the crime scenes and he had even managed to show off a little. He decided to walk for a bit, not minding where he was headed. Not home, that was certain.

This serial killer was almost entertaining, creative with an intelligence above average. It sure beat the so-called "cereal miller". That one was as good at murdering as he was at finding a criminal name, meaning Sherlock's most worrisome foe for days had been boredom. He had had way too much time to think, so when Gavin (or whatever) had called, his mood had been especially nasty. Even the excitement of a new case hadn't done much to lift his spirits. And that inept DI that tried to show sympathy while keeping his professional facade, it was infuriating! He wasn't some sentimental fool that needed to be comforted after a traumatic event, he was fine!

"Not sure about that, Sherlock," said Mycroft's falsely caring voice, uninvited.

"Shut up," grumbled the sullen sleuth. It was London, so no one paid attention to the strange man talking to himself.

Without Sherlock noticing, his treacherous feet led him to the cemetery. He knew his city very well and he wasn't usually one for wandering, it was too random. He hadn't expected to end up... here, of all the places, but today, his mind was distraught and his whole body and mind had drifted. How disconcerting.

He sighed. Decidedly, this wasn't a good day. It wasn't his very worst neither, and he wondered if it might at least be considered kind of good, since his definition of the word had always been odd and had become more so lately.

He needed to focus.

More than ever, he needed his investigations to stop the derailing train of his thoughts. Drugs wouldn't take him far with Mycroft always on his heels. With time, his annoying brother would let him breathe, give him some space. Then he would be free to do as he wished. To every problem, there is a solution: his was a seven percent one. He didn't care anymore, not that he cared much before, but when the doctor lived still, he had one good reason at least not to get high all the time.

Stupid car and stupid accident! John and Mary had married and Rosamund was born. Of course they had a car! It was more convenient than the cab for a family. More normal. John, for some reason, had always longed for a normal life. Normal didn't fit him, it wasn't what he needed to be happy, yet he had wanted it for as long as Sherlock had known him. Stupid John.

Retired Captain John Watson, addicted to danger, war and psychopaths, had died in a car accident. Ordinary, boring, not John. When he had heard the news, he had tried so hard to find another explanation. There had to be one. Sherlock lived in a world where impossible was commonplace. He had himself simulated his death. There was always a trick. A detail that everyone overlooked, except him, a detail that changed everything. Not this time, though. John was not Sherlock and it was all too real.

* * *

 _Sherlock had always enjoyed a good crime scene. That one could only be described as a nightmare. Fog was obscuring everything and it had nothing to do with the local weather. His mind raced beneath the confusion and disbelief fighting for his attention. It was worse than his most intense drug-induced hallucinations and he wished for a second or twelve that that was all it was. That he would wake up to John lecturing him on his bad habits and their effects on his health. He wouldn't listen because abstinence wasn't immortality, and why did he have to be right on that point?_ John _was always right. It was annoying. God, he missed it already._

 _He didn't hear Scotland Yard talking. Well, he heard the noise, but the words were lost on him. Not unlike all those times when Mrs Hudson was prattling on about... He wasn't even sure what it was about most of the time, he just knew that it was not of enough importance or interest to pay attention. Some memory or the other that she wished to share, out of boredom or loneliness. Or maybe kindness. Most people did seem to find "socialising"_ _a polite thing to do in the presence of others. John understood those things better._

 _If the situation hadn't been so bad, he might have been irritated to hear anyone in close proximity to him breathe or think. Now, all sounds around him seemed to dim and he was upset by what he didn't hear. He tried to clear his head and concentrate on the one voice he wanted to hear, but silence met his efforts. Even when John wasn't by his side, he could still hear him in his head and talk to him. Now, he just couldn't, and that made him feel a lot of things, but most of all, even if he wouldn't admit it, he was scared._

 _John should have been there to help him sort out all of this mess. If not in person, in thought. He needed his assistant right now. No, he corrected himself. He needed his friend. John could still be with him, if he could just think. Why couldn't he think? He was suddenly angry at himself, because John was right when he said that he thought better when he wanted to show off. Now, there was no show. Now, it really counted. Thinking was what he did best and for the life of John, he couldn't._

 _And he couldn't bear the thought of never hearing John again._

* * *

It had all failed him. His cold logic, his senses, his deduction skills. The genius detective had been gone, leaving in his place a man, desperate and utterly useless. There had been no crime to solve, no malefactor to catch. It had been an accident. Save the life, that was John's thing. Sherlock dealt with corpses most of the time and he had been too late anyway. For once, it was he who had been out of his depth.

This would have been the perfect time for all the police officers that hated him to laugh and humiliate him, but they had done no such thing.

So he had accepted the shock blanket without a word. His first case involving John had ended with a shock blanket. The last, too. It was fitting.

Now, he could have turned away from the deserted cemetery. Go back home, maybe, drink some tea. But Sherlock never chose the easy option.

He knew exactly where to find John Hamish Watson, beloved husband and father. There, there were fresh lilac flowers. Mary had come sooner that day with little Rosie, aged three. The drama had taken place last year but none of them had moved on. They had tried, though. Sherlock helped them when he could. Most of the time, he couldn't.

He had neglected to see them for some time now. He had been quite busy working and brooding, maybe not in that order. Keeping his distance from the Watsons had been the best course of action.

Sherlock had not moved out of his Baker Street flat. Maybe he should have. John would have. 221B had been accommodating only him for many years, but it was hard to forget that John had lived there. It seemed like yesterday and ages ago at the same time. The red chair was still there. He had not removed it from the living room before the accident and had not been tempted to after.

Thus, he had only himself to blame for the ghost.

* * *

 _"There are no ghosts in this world... save those we make for ourselves. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day."_

 _Sherlock didn't remember when he had said that or why, but somehow the words had come back to him. He had this bad habit of becoming obsessed with specific ideas. When it was useful to his work, he didn't complain. For the moment, he wished it wasn't "death"._

 _It had been a week since the accident. Time was becoming a very abstract concept. Meals wouldn't help him in the arduous task of keeping track of the passing hours. Sleep was evading him. The silence was all but peaceful._

 _He was staring at the wall. It was ugly. But not quite as ugly as the rug, so he kept looking at it. Each rip in the wallpaper told a story of danger. Holes were a study in idleness and boredom. All of it was Sherlock._

 _Part of him knew his flat was in a sad state. He didn't mind dust, but the mess he lived in was counterproductive. He should at least bother to open his mail. It was accumulating on the mantelpiece._

 _John's bedroom used to be tidy in a military fashion._

 _A case. Now._

 _He sprang from the couch, up for the first time this day. His phone was in his coat's pocket and it was too far. His laptop, on the other hand, was conveniently waiting for him on the tabletop. He opened it as if his life depended on it._

 _Still no case._

 _Why was there nothing?_

 _He began pacing, muttering something about lazy criminals, his skull listening intently. He could have sworn the smiley face was mocking him. He felt the sudden urge to adorn it with new holes._

 _"Caring is not an advantage, brother dear," came Mycroft's haughty remark._

 _It was as much true as it was infuriating, because John was the exception. Sherlock had always managed to keep his distance from people. Then, there had been this army doctor. Mutual trust and friendship had been there from the start, and now there was just no way he could detach himself from this. Even if John was..._

 _He directed his gaze at the empty chair._

 _Sherlock needed to get out soon or he would break down completely. He swirled around and went to retrieve his coat. That's when he noticed the tea cup. Oh. Mrs Hudson must have put it there. A couple of hours ago, but not longer._

 _He tied his scarf and put on his gloves. He spared a glance at his Sherlock Holmes hat. He wouldn't need it where he was going. And it would be advisable to be discreet about it._

 _When he came back to his flat, the tea cup had disappeared. Something resembling a smile formed at the corners of his lips. He hastily removed his outdoor clothing._

 _The walls needed to be repaired again, he noted absently. He took the small package he had brought back with him, safely hidden in his coat._

 _And he, he needed a fix._

* * *

Sherlock stood there, in face of the grave, not knowing what to say. Talking had never been a problem for him, unless it was emotional talk. And he had much to say, but he was under the impression that all had been said and that adding anything would be useless. He didn't know why he kept coming back here. It's not as if John could hear him anyway.

But he was used talking to himself.

"John" was all he said. He sat down, his back set against the cold stone. He felt so tired, his case long forgotten. Once, he had found the words. Voicing them had been harder than expected. It didn't matter. John mattered. And he deserved it.

* * *

 _Sherlock was standing still, back ramrod straight, hands joined in front of him. His demeanor was uncharacteristically solemn and his grim face was set in stone. There was nobody there. Just the two of them, like it used to be. He had once thought that the hardest speech he'd have to do in his life would be at John's wedding. He breathed in and tried to relax a little. His doctor had done it. It was now his turn. He just needed to start somewhere._

 _"John." He couldn't get anything else out yet. He cleared his throat and tried again. "John. My friend." The gravestone did nothing to interrupt him. Then, he knew what to say._

 _"One more miracle. It's all I ask from you. Come back. Don't be dead. Please."_

 _He sounded ridiculous to himself, but it was too late to stop. He laughed as his eyes filled with tears._

 _"You idiot, I never beg." Sherlock wiped a salty droplet off his cheek. "I'm crying now, happy? I care, John. I... I care." His voice was trembling and his constricting throat was making it hard to talk. He tried to get a hold of himself. "You always were the reasonable man. Still are. Not gonna argue that. You know what a reckless moron I am. I've always needed you to save me."_

 _Sherlock paused, looking at the grey sky. When he continued, his voice was steadier. "Someday, the East Wind will take me too. It takes us all in the end. That'll make one less sociopath walking on the earth. But you, John Watson. You had no right to die. Not when your family needs you. The battle's not over. The game's not..."_

 _He shut his eyes tightly. Tears ran freely down his face. His hands dug into his hair, having nothing else to do. He felt like a true drama queen, kneeling slowly. He opened his eyes, his vision still blurry and his breathing pattern getting more irregular by the second. His arms fell at his sides and his hands closed into fists. The creases on his face worsened._

 _"IT'S NOT OVER, JOHN! WHY IS IT NEVER OVER?"_

 _Sherlock took three deep breaths to collect himself. The silence stretched. He felt cold replace the fire. Ice had always suited him best. His voice was barely above a whisper when he said:_

 _"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."_

 _The detective had failed John in so many ways, been undeserving of the love of everyone that had cared for him. That had never stopped John from being his friend._

 _"You never gave up on me. Not when you discovered I wasn't the hero of your adventures. Not when I disappointed you. Not when you had every reason to. You are a good man. The best thing that happened in my life. If I ever made you feel otherwise, please forgive me."_

 _Sherlock rose, but didn't go away. Something was holding him back. He knew that he had to say it. He owed him that much._

 _"Goodbye, John Watson," he said at last. He turned away and departed without looking back._

 _But the ice followed._

* * *

Time did not always heal. Sherlock had had the misfortune to meet many spiders and sharks in his life. John had been the voice in the night. He would try to be the human being Watson had always seen in him. He had to stop pushing everyone away.

At least, Molly had understood that she would always end up heartbroken with him and she had moved out of London to live with someone she had met in a cafe. He had seemed nice. Good for her. She had been patient enough.

Life was going on despite everything. It stopped only for those who refused to move forward. There would always be people who couldn't take the change. Those were condemned to stay in the past, with the ghosts.

But then he'd always known he was a man out of his time. The Moriarty in his head smirked and Sherlock couldn't resist a small sad smile. Nothing new under the sun, then. He would cope.

He had never been a hero, he wasn't even nice most of the time, but when it truly mattered, he was prepared to do anything.

There was a serial killer to catch. People needed him to do this right. And he had promised to watch over Mary and Rosie.

Sherlock stood and looked into the distance before turning to the remains of his best friend. "I won't let them down. Never again." He put his hand on top of the gravestone and felt the familiar wave of loneliness weighting him down.

"The game is on," declared John.

There it was. A small flicker of hope. Sherlock withdrew his hand. He had thought he would never hear that voice again. "Thank you," he answered, and he meant it.

He started to walk away. "The game is on," the detective repeated, adjusting his cap.


End file.
